


The Necessity of Words

by cecilkirk



Series: fic prompts [3]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, Ryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:43:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't know what to do when he's at a loss for words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Necessity of Words

Ryan had always been someone who needed to describe the world around him. He couldn’t cope without crafting his own words around an event, belief, idea; he needed to mark it as his own in some form before he could move on.  

The things he couldn’t describe were what tore him up.

He could look at the pictures in a box under his bed, or the hoodie balled on the floor of his closet. He could assign something to them—something clichéd, out of a movie, but something nonetheless. He very well could, and he’d be damned if he hadn’t tried, but it was useless, often to the point of frustration. He tried ‘Maybe this is for the best’ and ‘We’ll have our memories’ but it wasn’t how he felt. The words became prevarications, and every syllable swirled interminably in his ears, reminding him mercilessly: _you don’t know what you’re feeling. you don’t know what to do._

Why was it this? Why was he at such a loss for words over one person?

Ryan stares at his bed from across the room. The shoebox is just visible, a corner jutting through the shadows.

Writing gave him solace. He was able to control something for a few minutes at a time. One song is his, solely, purely, irrefutably. Something he created, something that couldn’t have existed without him. He could string together a few words, lay them on a variance of chords, and form was taken—a break in the chaos, at least for a handful of seconds. He could assign grace, designate beauty–control _everything_.

He couldn’t handle not having control.

And even though he knows it’ll only lead to pain (the sharp corner of the box more serrated than it appears), his feet move toward his bed. Every fiber of finely-tuned common sense is defying his actions until they are mute. His actions have overcome his control.

He thinks that maybe he just needs affirmation of any pain at all, if there’s even anything worth trying to identify. He thinks maybe it’ll be like forgetting to shut the door on the way out—something you can only remember through repetition.

One glance at the first image and he can’t let himself exhale. A quiver creeps into his fingertips, but he can’t look away.

_Repetition. Repetition._

They’re in a hammock, squeezed together, limbs splayed across each other in the insouciant way that comes from utter and absolute comfort. They’re both smiling, but his smile is beautiful, nothing short of—

Ryan’s jaw clenches. He swaps it for another, letting himself breathe. His knees feel like they’re seeping into the floor, like he’s losing all shape.

_Repetition. Repetition._

Snow. God, he remembers that day. Brendon had tried to teach him how to ice skate, which had led to gratuitous touching and holding. They’d gotten coffee afterward to break the bitter cold in their blood. They asked some guy to take their picture and Brendon had wrapped his arm around Ryan’s waist. It wasn’t visible in the picture, but, God, did he remember that. Both of their cheeks were pink and touching, faces pressed together in the kind of indolent silliness that comes with—

He swallows the word down, not daring to bring it into existence. A grin curls his lips, but his eyes begin to prickle.

_Repetition. Repetition._

He looks over every single picture in that box. It takes him an hour.

When he replaces it in the shadows beneath his bed, he stands and finds his knees are weak. Even just looking at old photos is enough for his composure to crumble. And he’s not any closer to figuring out what he’s feeling.

Tears of frustration bob in his throat. He didn’t need to remember this to move on; how could he ever forget? Repetition hadn’t brought clarity, only greater force—a peripheral sucker punch over and over and over. He wasn’t any closer to being able to see it, or stop it.

What the fuck was he feeling? His chest ached with sadness, misplaced joy, nostalgia, yearning back and forth through time…and for what? It was out of his control now; he knew that. There was nothing he could do. He had made his choice; if anyone should be feeling like this, it should be Brendon.

It was logical to move on. To burn the pictures. To throw out the hoodie.

But he couldn’t.

He needed words.

His jaw clenches in embarrassment as tears begin to brim, blurring his vision. Whatever amalgamation of emotions he had was bleeding into his veins; his fingers wouldn’t stop shaking, his stomach was knotting, and his knees felt weak. A panic surges through his mind:

What if he can never find words? What if this was something he could never get over?

What if he was never meant to get over it?

What if he had made a huge mistake?

A bitter smile appears as his foundation cracks and tears streak his features.

What had he done?


End file.
